


Tishina

by Somedrunkpirate



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Communication, Fluff and Angst, Gaby is awesome, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Reunions, The men's bathroom affair
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-08
Updated: 2017-12-08
Packaged: 2019-02-12 03:39:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12950502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Somedrunkpirate/pseuds/Somedrunkpirate
Summary: Prompt: After a few missions as teams, they're split up to go their separate ways as spies. Realization of wanting their other half. Reunification.---Napoleon realises how nervous he is when he reaches into his pocket, digging out a packet of cigarettes.He flicks his lighter open – silver and dented on all sides, a knick of a bullet shines in the light – and has to take a few tries before his cigarette lights aflame. The slight breeze and his disobedient fingers offering a challenge.The cigarette trembles between his fingers and Napoleon lets out a surprised rumble of laughter. He takes a shaky breath and then immediately coughs up the lung–full of smoke like it’s his first time all over again. It isn’t. Though it’s been awhile since he’d felt the necessity. The itch in the corner of his mind, pulling and aching for something to fiddle with while riding the quiet rush of nicotine. A distraction desperately needed.Scratch nervous. Napoleon is terrified.





	Tishina

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tallihensia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tallihensia/gifts).



Napoleon realises how nervous he is when he reaches into his pocket, digging out a packet of cigarettes. 

He flicks his lighter open – silver and dented on all sides, a knick of a bullet shines in the light – and has to take a few tries before his cigarette lights aflame. The slight breeze and his disobedient fingers offering a challenge. 

The cigarette trembles between his fingers and Napoleon lets out a surprised rumble of laughter. He takes a shaky breath and then immediately coughs up the lung–full of smoke like it’s his first time all over again. It isn’t. Though it’s been awhile since he’d felt the necessity. The itch in the corner of his mind, pulling and aching for something to fiddle with while riding the quiet rush of nicotine. A distraction desperately needed. 

Scratch nervous. Napoleon is terrified. 

It shouldn’t be that much of a surprise. Napoleon has arrived unreasonably early, and had bought the packet of Camels mindlessly at the airport. He hadn’t even taken the time to scoff at the ridiculous mark–up in his hurry to get here, an hour before Illya expects him. 

Napoleon follows his first cigarette with another as he watches people passing by. It’s a nice, sunny, summer day despite the wind picking up slightly, and families pushing empty strollers with bumbling toddlers in hand roam around, feeding fat city ducks carbohydrates that will make them even sicker than they already are. Napoleon watches the creatures gobble up the bread with vigor and feels a tingle of shame as sucks on his cigarette. It isn’t helping much, but he pretends it does. 

His hands are still shaking after the fourth. Napoleon decides to wait until it’s time; hopefully he’s gotten a hold of himself by then. 

A duck hops out of the pond, quacking loudly as it waddles onto the stone path. It finds a piece of half–eaten pizza on the ground next to a trash can and gorges it happily. 

Napoleon throws the remainder of his Camels away. 

“You used to have better taste, Cowboy.” 

Napoleon suppresses a flinch. Illya lowers his paper to his lap, something of a smirk hidden behind the rim of his hat; brown and inconspicuous, as is the rest of his attire. His black jeans and dark brown turtleneck make him melt into the background. Still, Napoleon should have seen him sitting cross–legged on the park bench. He’s either getting slow, or his nerves got the best of him. He suspects the latter. 

Illya takes off his sunglasses and gives Napoleon a passive once–over. The twitch in his lips doesn’t fade. “At least your fashion sense has improved.”

Napoleon flutters a hand over his navy Italian jacket before he can stop himself, and pastes an easy smile on his face. 

“If you invited me here to insult me,” Napoleon drawls, “You could have just called. There are these things called telephones? I’m sure you can get my number from somewhere.” 

Illya blinks at him strangely and Napoleon gets the feeling he’s missing something here. A pertinent piece of information that would help make this whole thing make sense. 

As it stands, Napoleon has no clue what is going on, and in such situations, the reasonable action is to talk his way through it. “You’re going a bit grey, Peril. I know a delightful hairstylist that would fix you right up. Maybe consider going for ginger this time? It would compliment your eyes.” 

Illya folds his paper closed with the flick of his wrist and takes off his hat. The sunlight hits the soft blond hair, making it glow golden and shimmer and– 

This is what Napoleon came for. 

He came despite the way it tears at him to see Illya again. He agreed because his memories were fading. Illya became a ghost in the periphery of his mind, radiant and forever, but degrading in details. He’d forgotten the way his smile arched, or how his fingers never seemed to sit still. Napoleon had forgotten how his whole body would soar, just a little, when Illya’s eyes round on him, always seeming to sense where he was. 

God. He has missed him and it will be worse again after this meeting is over. Like an old wound scraped raw by an impatient hand, never given the time to fully heal. But it will be worth it. The pain will be worth it. Because his memories are fresh again. 

“I have better things to do than insult you, Cowboy,” Illya says, shaking Napoleon out of his reverie. “Come, this isn’t a conversation suited for a park bench.” 

Illya turns away without looking back, paper rolled up under his arm, and hat in hand. He walks leisurely, but with purpose, assuming blindly that Napoleon will follow without protest. 

Napoleon follows without protest. Metaphorically and literally a step behind the proceedings, but due to the view he can’t say he minds much. 

Illya leads him to the lake–side seating area and all notion the location had been an accident goes out of the window. The sight of the green building leaves Napoleon with a strange mix of nostalgia and sorrow. He doesn’t think Illya is being intentionally cruel by bringing him here, but being reminded of the end of that era of his life leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. 

UNCLE had been good to him, or as good an agency could be to one of their chess pieces. They’d at least hadn’t made Napoleon feel like a piece of criminal dog shit more deserving on the heel of a drunk’s shoe. 

And here was where it all started. 

Illya walks onto the raised podium and at once all people sitting scattered around the tables vacate the premises. He turns to Napoleon with a little smug smile on his face. “Oleg taught me the trick. Christmas bonus.” 

A zing of electricity buzzes through Napoleon’s body and he smiles back despite himself. “I didn’t know you Soviets had those, isn’t it a symptom of capitalistic entitlement?” 

Illya laughs. Illya honest to god laughs, throwing his head back a little while shaking his head. 

Napoleon is slowly dying inside. This is going to be the death of him. Survived the baddest traitors and villains of the highest order, felled by one Peril’s smile. 

Illya is still smiling by the time they reach their table, the one with two cups standing in the middle. He pushes a chair out from underneath the table, but sits on the chair opposite. 

Napoleon raises an eyebrow at the gesture as he sits on the chair Illya’d prepared for him. “Is the KGB teaching you reds manners now? Couldn’t they have done so before we became partners?” 

Illya just huffs again and pushes a cup of coffee forward. Napoleon takes it cautiously and marvels momentarily after the first sip; light on the sugar, heavy on the caffeine, and a slight dusting of cinnamon. Illya’s lips twitch behind his own mug, knowing very well he’d been successful. He isn’t supposed to remember things like this, after _years._

This is so unfair. 

They drink in a moment of tranquility and Illya’s inexplicable actions had distracted Napoleon from the fact that this is also the exact table Oleg and Sanders had left them at for their pissing contest. 

Napoleon doesn’t know what to do with that realisation, and he doesn’t want to ask Illya in case it’s insignificant to him and the question will give too much away. 

Instead he says, “You’re not going to flip the table on me again are you?” 

“You’re not going to insult my mother again, are you?” Illya fires back without hesitation, but the spark in his eyes makes clear that it isn’t meant as the barbed comment it could have been. 

“Not planning to,” Napoleon replies airily, and takes the last sip of his coffee. “Now, what do you need me for, old friend.” 

Illya stills for a moment, and sets his coffee – still half full, cooling – on the table. He seems to hesitate for a second, just looking at Napoleon in silence. Napoleon feels like the gaze burns into his skin, but he can’t look away. 

“I didn’t ask you here for a case, Napoleon,” Illya says finally, in a tone Napoleon can’t place. 

Napoleon’s stomach drops. The only security of the situation falls away under his feet and the world tilts in uncertainty. Napoleon smoothes his surprise in a smile and an ill–advised joke. “If this is a kidnapping attempt, Peril, it’s a bit of a lousy one. I’d hoped I taught you better than that.” 

Illya expressions goes from unreadable to a plane of confusion, and something suspiciously close to hurt. He’s never been so open, Napoleon notes with a sinking feeling, but he can’t stop now that he’s started. “Except if you put something in the coffee,” he babbles, motioning to the cup in question. “Then I must say I’m impressed.” 

“Napoleon.” Illya speaks slow. “I’m not taking you. I just want to talk.” 

The furrow between Illya’s brows indicate worry and regret, and Napoleon realises that he’s just crossed an invisible line he hadn’t thought was there. The air between them feels fragile, and he can’t play with fire like this; tread the wrong way and he could do damage to a relationship wilted with distance. After so many years apart, they must have lost that security. 

Napoleon pushes a sigh of grief away and gives Illya a smile, small but honest, trying to show a depth of trust he can’t voice out loud. Illya would never manipulate him like that, they’ve established that time and time again over the years. 

“I’ve had too many cigarettes, evidently, seeing shadows where there are none.”

It’s not the best excuse he could have come up with, but that wasn’t the intended purpose anyway. Illya takes it and relaxes a little, loosening his tense shoulders. 

“What did you want to talk about, Peril?” 

Illya leans back in his chair, the iron creaks under his weight. He looks over the lake pensively, a noble profile contrasting with the blue plain. There are swans swimming behind him and Napoleon’s heart beats in a bird’s pace in his throat. 

“I’ve never been as good with words as you, Napoleon,” Illya begins. 

Napoleon becomes very aware of their knees knocking together under the cursed miniscule table. He’s lost within the timber of Illya’s voice and the fleeting glances he shoots him. 

“So forgive me if I’m not as eloquent as I should be.” 

“Of course,” Napoleon murmurs, barely daring to interrupt. 

“As you know, I view my time with UNCLE as the best years of my career. We helped many more good causes than I ever expected to be able to in my lifetime. KGB agents tend to… move on fast.” Illya tilts his head sideways with a twitch of his lips before continuing, “What made the experience as valuable to me as it was, was the team that had been assembled. The partners I was assigned.” Illya smiles wryly. “I had another opinion at the time, certainly at the beginning, but I soon learned I was in the company of two of the most competent and intelligent spies I had ever met. You belonged to a caliber surprisingly rare – you still do.” 

Napoleon listens with bated breath as Illya’s words bring another memory to mind. The day of goodbye’s; the termination of UNCLE. 

_“It’s been a honor working with you, Cowboy.”_

That’s what Illya had said as they parted ways, and Napoleon can see the echo of that sentiment in his eyes now. Illya still believes that, and Napoleon feels warm deep inside. 

“I’ve always thought I had an objective view of our dynamic,” Illya continues, “I knew we worked well together, despite getting on each other’s nerves. I knew you pushed me to be better, to fight harder, and to care for those around me. You joke about it, but I have learned how to be better in many ways through working with you. It makes me glad I didn’t choke you in the toilet.” 

Illya delivers his last line with a blank face, nodding to the men's facilities in question. 

Napoleon laughs, he can’t process the honest way Illya speaks, but jokes he can handle. More familiar. “Well, I’m glad I didn’t shoot you while you were ambitiously trying to outrun a _car._ ” 

“It was a tiny car,” Illya informs him. 

“Gaby was driving it,” Napoleon says. 

Illya tilts his head to the side, as much of a conceding the argument Napoleon’s ever going to get out of him. “I wasn’t informed of her vehicle mastery back then.” 

“I suppose not,” Napoleon allows. 

Illya lets out a silent breath, and Napoleon knows they’re both thinking about their chop–shop girl – though the term had always been a misnomer. A woman of great regard, she had been the driving force of their ragtag team, and now she’s still busy leading others into secretive battles for the British government. But their chop–shop girl she’ll always remain. 

“I thought I knew how we functioned,” Illya says, picking up the conversation where it had left off. “And that included not talking about certain subjects.” 

Napoleon swallows. Something in his throat seems to be stuck, constricting around him. He coughs once, but Illya continues mercilessly. 

“I felt I had enough reason to not talk about certain things, with you. Chicago. Venice. You knew and you didn’t respond. I took the silence as a rejection. I decided that there was no reason to make things more difficult between us, and I valued our partnership before all else.” 

Napoleon swears the wind brought a thick, choking blanket of heat to their table. He feels like he’s boiling in his suit. The sudden warmth makes it harder to figure out the meaning within Illya’s speech. Napoleon doesn’t know what it means. The locations he mentioned tug at him, something about them so important, and Illya’s voice is drowned into the background when Napoleon remembers. He remembers. 

_Chicago._ Panting in a dark allway after having run their lungs out; making a daring but successful escape through the city’s networks of hidden streets that stink of catpiss and abandoned trash. Adrenaline had been running high, and Illya’s hand was still a vice around his wrist from where he’d pulled Napoleon away, out of the path of a bullet. With every breath the alleyway seemed narrower, the air denser, and Illya closer. Napoleon almost – _almost_ – breached the distance between their lips before remembering himself just in time. He must have said something funny then, because next is Illya laughing, as he stepped away and let go. 

_Venice._ Illya had been drugged by a glass meant for Napoleon. He had been mumbling illegible Russian into the crook Napoleon’s neck as he was busy trying to soothe him, while instructing the cab–driver to their safe–house and ignoring the dirty looks the diver threw back at them. They’d ended up draped all over each other, a tangle of legs in the backseat. Napoleon still feels the sickening worry; remembering Illya weak and tame as he had been then. Anyone could have taken him, and that thought haunts him to this day. 

“Bangkok,” Napoleon says without thinking. Illya nods, face drawn. Napoleon looks at his lips. 

In Bangkok, Napoleon had kissed him. Just once. An ill–conceived cover in a dank club deep within the more shady regions of the city. The music had been loud and booming and bodies were pressing all around them. The only thing keeping Napoleon grounded had been Illya’s warm hands on his waist, swaying them with the beat. Napoleon had kissed him then. A languid and heavy kiss he’d later excused by telling Illya he had spotted the mark and had wanted them to blend in. Illya had nodded with clenched teeth, and they had never spoken of it again. 

Until now, it seems. 

Napoleon wishes there was something stronger than coffee around. 

“I was glad for the silence,” Illya says softly. “You hadn’t seemed to have lost respect for me. Our partnership had limits, but I could live with them, and I never regretted anything. Until Gaby gave me another perspective, two weeks ago. She had an interesting point to make.” 

Fuck. He knows. Gaby spilled. Napoleon feels frozen again. 

Illya leans forward a little. “I see no reason why she would lie about this, and I trust her. So I contacted you, to talk.” 

Talking. Talking around the subject yet again. A peculiar partnership, tension ignored and buried. Unrequited. Napoleon had been so sure of this. Illya would never see him in _that_ way. The way he longed for. But maybe he had been wrong about that. Maybe it isn’t unrequited after all. The thought banishes all others. Maybe Illya feels _something._

Illya isn’t looking at him anymore. He twists his father's watch around his wrist with the one hand, around and around again, staring holes into the silver band. The tension radiates out of him, palpable, from his hunched shoulders to the small lines on his forehead. Napoleon wants to touch, reach out and smooth them away, but he’s still stuck in his frozen state. He doesn’t want to hope. He could be projecting, reading Illya’s words wrong, maybe there is a language problem between them. He can’t survive a misunderstanding, not with this. 

But then Illya makes eye–contact and the hesitant but powerful force within them melts Napoleon to the ground. Illya’s hopes and fears are stark and clear and there is no way Napoleon can deny this now. He knows that expression like the beating of his own frantic heart. He’s felt exactly what Illya’s portraying for so long. 

And they both see it. 

“Peril.” 

It’s barely a breath. A huff of emotion sighed out of exhausted lungs. Napoleon can’t find any more words to say, but it’s enough. Illya sits up slowly, unfolding himself as his smile takes over, growing in gradients. 

Napoleon has never seen anything more beautiful. 

“Yes, Cowboy?” 

Napoleon swallows. He feels like he’s being held under gunfire or on the edge of a high cliff, his heart punches and sweat trails down his back. But Illya took a risk asking him here, opening up this unspoken thing between them. It’s time for Napoleon to be brave now, too. 

“I’m afraid I’ve always regarded you as more than a partner– in work, that is,” Napoleon says. “I’d accepted that you did not feel the same. But even in our years apart my… predilection has not lessened.” 

“Is that so?” Illya asks, grinning slowly. 

Napoleon lets out a chuckle, part self–conscious, part relief. “You’d think I’d have better taste.” 

Illya huffs. “I say you have.”

Napoleon hums, giddy. “I guess you have an impressive pedigree. Best junior officer of the KGB, a successful and respected agent, and you don’t look half bad either.” 

Illya just looks at him, Napoleon pulls his best and charming smile. Illya shakes his head before reaching over the table and grabbing Napoleon by the collar of his shirt, kissing him soundly. The table jams into Napoleon’s stomach but he can’t give a damn as his tongue slides against Illya’s and _finally_ he can taste the flame between them. 

Napoleon grins loosely as he pulls away a little, taking a much needed breath. “I think there is a better place for this.” 

Illya barely lets him finish, chasing the end his suggestion with another kiss. He kicks the table away, it topples to the side, claning loudly against the chairs. Napoleon lets himself be pulled close, sighing as Illya’s solid body lines his, his hands roaming his back. 

“Come, Peril.” Napoleon says finally, stepping deftly from Illya’s groping hands. Illya lets a highly amusing, disappointed sound, but follows Napoleon into the men’s toilet. 

Illya embodies impatience as Napoleon checks the stalls for an unexpected audience. 

When the coast is deemed clear, he turns back to Illya and says, “Now. Where were we, Peril?” 

Illya shrugs faux–casually, opening his hands as if to signal naïveté. “You tell me, Cowboy.” 

Napoleon laughs, closing in on Illya until he’s backed against the wall. Napoleon leans forward like he should have in Chicago. Their breaths mingle between them, and Napoleon whispers against Illya’s lips, “Should I tell you, or show you?” 

Illya growls and slides his hands around Napoleon’s nape, drawing him in. His reply is lost in the following kiss, but Napoleon understands nonetheless. 

Their fight had ended with splinters and bruised necks, and Napoleon finds that their second affair in this bathroom ends up much the same. He feels like he’s spinning. Illya’s hands have found their way underneath his shirt, his jacket lays disregarded in a puddle on the floor and Napoleon couldn’t give less of a shit about that right now. Illya kisses fiercely, passion pouring out with every breath and Napoleon senses the desperation on his tongue, the years of repressing and fantasizing and _god–_ Napoleon moans, louder than he intended to. “Do that again.” 

Illya scapes his teeth over Napoleon’s throat before kissing the way back up. Napoleon buries his hands in Illya’s hair and bites at his lips, chasing away Illya’s satisfied grin. He’s wanted this for so long. So long. He can’t imagine living without this anymore. He doesn’t know how he lived a day without this. 

The sentiment slips out. Napoleon tries to keep their pace hurried and fast, but he can’t help but caress Illya’s jaw a little, trace the soft blush on his cheeks. He wishes he could hoard the spark in Illya’s eyes. Keep it safe and make sure he’ll always stay so bright. Illya notices the change, gentling his hold on Napoleon. The hands grabbing at Napoleon waist go from possesive to exploring, treasuring. Kisses scatter over his face. 

Napoleon presses his forehead into Illya’s shoulder, slowly melting. Illya is so warm. Warmer still as Illya stops all together and just wraps his arm around him, holding him up. 

“Are you okay?” Illya whispers. 

Napoleon nods against him. 

“Cowboy.” Illya tilts his chin up, searching his face with furrowed brows. “Tell me.” 

Napoleon tries for a smile, and when that isn’t successful he kisses Illya again. Illya responds, but he keeps it light, pulling away when Napoleon slows down. 

“Talk to me,” Illya says, eyes pleading. The spark is gone already. 

Napoleon bites his lip. He can’t think with Illya all around him. The seconds tick by and Illya’s worry grows with them. When Napoleon makes the barest movement back, his arms fall away at once, as if burned. Napoleon wants to grab his hand and tell him “No.” He’d much prefer to do this in the comfort of his embrace. But he needs his mind in order to speak. They can’t make the same mistake twice. 

Napoleon sags against the wall, the sink nudges into his side. He drags a hand through his hair. “I don’t think I can do this.” 

There is a hitch of breath, and Napoleon looks up at the sound. Illya looks away hurriedly. His face crestfallen. 

“No!” Napoleon blurts, “I don’t mean– not that.” 

Illya flickers his gaze towards him again, a sick mixture of pain and confusion on his face and Napoleon doesn’t want to hurt him. He has to suck it up. He takes a shuddering breath. 

“Look, Illya,” Napoleon says warely. “I can’t do this and then not see you for weeks or months– until the next time our schedules coincide. Our jobs aren’t predictable and I just can’t–” Napoleon shakes his head. “I can’t make you choose either, so I’ll retire. From the CIA. I could stay with you during down time, or something. We’ll figure it out.”

Illya is staring at him in a way that makes Napoleon regret every word he just said. 

“I mean,” Napoleon says, stepping away from the wall and turning his back to Illya, leaning over the sink. “If you want something more permanent.” 

Napoleon avoids looking at the mirror, staring at the rusting pipes instead. “If casual was what you were going for you choose the wrong man, Peril.” 

“No. Yes.” 

Napoleon’s eyes betray him and he sees Illya wince in the reflection, saying. “Permanent as in a relationship?” 

Napoleon is mostly sure his ribs are fine, but the general region suddenly stings. Hard.“I thought that was clear.” 

Illya lets out a long breath and nods. He steps closer, hesitant, covering one of Napoleon’s hands that had latched around the sink’s edge. Napoleon freezes, but can’t help but lean into Illya when he presses up against him, chest to back. 

“That sounds like a good deal to me, Cowboy,” Illya murmurs into his ear. “But you don’t have to quit your job for me.” 

He still doesn’t understand. Napoleon momentarily closes his eyes before facing the mirror, making sure Illya is looking at him when he says, “It’s non–negotiable. They’ll never let you in the country and most of my missions are in the US, and you’ll eventually resent me for it. You love your work. I can live without it, and I love you.” 

Napoleon can both feel and see Illya’s surprise. The way his next breath stutters, the slight tension in his muscles. His eyes are so bright, and Napoleon knows he didn’t make a mistake when Illya smiles wide and kisses his neck. 

“I appreciate the sentiment, Cowboy,” he says eventually, and every word is heavy with reprociation. Napoleon doesn’t need him to say the exact words back, not when every fibre of Illya’s being says enough. 

“But you really don’t need to quit.” 

Napoleon twists around to protest, but Illya is too fast; interrupting him with a gentle kiss. 

“You just need to accept a promotion,” Illya adds. 

“What?” Napoleon says, raising an eyebrow at him. “What are you talking about?” 

“Come, Gaby will explain,” Illya says, motioning to the door.

“Gaby is here?” Napoleon repeats dumbly. 

Illya looks at him and frowns, then scans himself in the mirror and frowns more. “We need to clean up a little.” 

Napoleon takes Illya in with his red bitten lips and mussed hair, and agrees, but, “If Gaby is here, she’ll know, no matter we do.” 

Illya is busy wetting his hair, trying to recover some order in the chaos. Napoleon decides he won’t bother. There is a flush covering his throat and his shirt is untucked on all sides and the state of his hair– nevermind about his hair. 

When Illya seems satisfied, he tugs them out of the toilets. He only lets go of Napoleon’s hand when they reach the proximity of Gaby, reading a book in the sun on the one chair that remained standing after Illya’s and Napoleon’s clumsy attempt to get to a more private space. 

She’s in a knee-length checkered dress that pools around her. She lowers her big sunglasses when she hears them coming and raises one delicate eyebrow, pretending to look very disapproving. 

Napoleon winks. “Your fault for telling him.” 

“I did so because I didn’t want my agents to spend another second pining after each other when I’m not always going to be around to kick some sense in them,” Gaby says, gazing at the sky as if asking for support before she looking at them with narrowed eyes. “What I didn’t account for were public indecency charges. I hope this is a one time mistake.” 

“We’ll keep it to hotelrooms and safe–houses next time,” Illya promises her and joins her side to kiss her cheek. 

“And you,” Gaby points threateningly at Napoleon. “Don’t you dare and break this one's heart.” She flicks her head to Illya before staring at Napoleon again. “I’m a better shot than you, so try me.” 

Napoleon laughs, a little overwhelmed, and gives her a kiss on her check too. He lingers close to her and says softly, “Thank you.” 

When he straightens, Gaby barely represses a smile. “Good, glad we have that sorted. I assume Illya’s got you up–to–date?” 

Napoleon shakes his head. 

Gaby rolls her eyes and tuts. “Too preoccupied for that. God save me.” She glares at Illya, who sports a delicious looking blush. 

“I don’t play cupid for nothing,” Gaby says. “I have an offer. A reinstatement of a partnership that never should have been broken up by stuffy politicians with sticks up their arses.” 

Slowly the puzzle pieces fall into place and Napoleon looks between them with wide eyes. “UNCLE is back?” 

Gaby grins. “Exactly. Only now I’ll be your handler. If you take the job, Napoleon, you can be assured that you’ll have another good ten to fiveteen years in service with us, with a good retirement fund to grace your golden days. And I’ll even make sure you’ll be let off around the same time, if you so wish.” 

Something warm is blooming inside Napoleon’s chest and he stops trying to tamp his smile down.

Illya watches him expectantly, hands clasped behind his back, so Napoleon decides to stop wasting time. 

“You got the sales pitch down, Gaby.” 

Gaby laughs. “Thank you.” 

“Where do I sign?” 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I might have overly focused on the reunion part of the prompt... oops. Hope you enjoyed it anyway! I had this whole other plan at first, but it was so angsty I thought I might save it for another time. Communication and reunion it became!


End file.
